Aftermath
by TheBritishGovernment'sBrolly
Summary: Based solely on the shot of John in 221B after Reichenbach. How does the soldier handle the first hours after the Fall? (It's not Johnlock, but on rereading, if you have your shipping goggles on, it'll be there)


John made it home at some point. He stayed at St. Bart's until he was asked to leave. He saw Mycroft - looking cool and collected and as if this had been in his effing iPhone as an appointment for days - come to identify the body. He'd wanted to go after him. Say something. Break his nose for being such a twat. But he found that moving required more than just desire. That he had to order his muscles to unclench from the severe parade rest into which he'd settled. That, in the end, he was too numb to have appreciated the moment if he'd taken it.

Greg drove him home. He took John's keys and unlocked doors, sat him down at the table and searched through the cupboards for tea. None left. Sherlock was being petulant about shopping and John was feeling self-righteously stubborn - and then the world had gone off its axis.

John waved off Lestrade's concern. Said he'd get tea from Mrs. Hudson - oh Christ, had anyone told her? Greg said Molly Hooper. If he decided to eat, he could get some Chinese takeaway from down the street. Fresh air. Greg was nodding, but with his eyes on him, John was suddenly aware that his fists were clenched tight enough to leave nailmarks on his palms. Greg asked the way to the loo. John wasn't an idiot, despite what Sherlock said. He knew the detective inspector was headed to his room to search for his gun, empty out the bullets, possibly slip it into his jacket. Once again, he found he was too numb to care.

Greg left well after dark, only after John had managed to carry on two conversations of longer than five sentences. One of them involved John wishing the entire Metropolitan police force, Anderson and Donovan in particular, to hell in the most colorful language his time as a soldier had taught him. Greg had taken it like a man, possibly because the cold, measured way John chewed out the profanity frightened him. John apologized as Greg went out the door, only to be waved off, as he knew he would be. It wasn't Greg's fault. He didn't dare consider too long whose fault it was that Sherlock -

Mrs. Hudson came up almost the moment the door closed, her eyes puffy, hair tousled, and voice creaky with crying. John patted her shoulder, refused the offer of tea, promised to shout for her if he needed anything, and firmly steered her toward the door. Exhausted, he said. Just needed some rest.

He turned on the telly. Nothing on at that hour. Not that he minded. He sat ramrod-straight in his chair and stared at the flickering images. News. Graham Norton. Some other show he'd never watched but knew was popular. He wasn't even sure that was the order they'd appeared. He knew only that when the window turned gray with the dawn, it was still playing, and he was still sitting, and somehow, the world had continued to turn.

It occurred to him to shower. He would have to move to do that, and his limbs were fairly locked.

The voice in his head took on a familiar military cadence. Get up. Find clothes. Shower. Shave.

Sir, yes, sir.

He accomplished all this in far too little time. Work. Check phone. Clean, his mind ordered. He called the clinic and took a sick day. The girl who answered didn't question it, and he hung up before she could get her condolences out. Harry had called seven times and sent over 15 texts. He had missed calls from numbers he could only assume were tabloid reporters. Stamford. Molly. Mrs. Hudson, twice. Sherlock would complain, but secretly relish all the fuss he was causing. Only the commanding voice in his head kept him from smashing the phone to bits.

The sofa alcove was distressing clean when he heard the key turn in the lock. He froze. Straightened. Let the handful of papers fall around his feet with a crisp whisper of newsprint. Took three trembling steps toward the door…

It was Mrs. Hudson, letting in an irate Harry, who had a large bag of Chinese takeaway and an even larger one of booze. She looked like she did the day she found out John took a beating for being the brother of a dyke. Proud and miserable and furious.

She didn't say a word. He didn't either. Mrs. Hudson made a sort of fluttery sigh, but went back downstairs once Harry had taken two steps inside and John hadn't stopped her. She put the Chinese on the coffee table and went into the kitchen for forks and the largest cups in the pantry.

The voice in his head ordered him to eat. His stomach lurched at the idea. But he would have to eat. He had things to do. Things that would require proteins and starches being ingested and digested to provide energy. The liquor, on the other hand, was not what he wanted.

He told Harry so. She disagreed. He kept his voice level, insisted that he would eat, but it was a bit early to get drunk. He was fine, he said. Appreciated the visit. His big sister looked helpless, uneasy. Like when he'd walked off the plane from Afghanistan leaning on a cane.

He told her not to worry. She told him he wouldn't fool anyone with that voice, those eyes, and no shoes. He glanced down with a start. He was still barefoot. Hadn't even found socks.

She left not long after. He ate several bites of sweet and sour pork to appease her, broke open the fortune cookie. Some madness about gardens and friendships. Harry left the liquor in the refrigerator. She hugged him good-bye, and because it mattered to her, he hugged her back.

Then he sat in his chair, staring at Sherlock's empty one, stomach rebelling at the food he'd so foolishly provided it, feet still bare, as mid-morning stretched to afternoon, and into evening. He'd actually thought it might be Sherlock at the door. Bloody fool.

Even the voice in his head no longer held the power to make him move. He didn't cry. He was simply, despairingly still. The last refuge of the soldier who has seen too much. Stillness kept the cracks from widening.

Mrs. Hudson knocked around dusk to offer him some dinner. He didn't call out to reject it.

He tried to make himself go upstairs. Sleep. Something his doctor's mind was well aware he needed. But he'd memorized the space in his line of sight and absorbed the memories it contained. He'd have to face the rest of the flat if he moved. Perhaps he could sleep in the chair. He tried letting his head loll back at some point as night grew deep.

Sleep engulfed him like fire, relaxing tense muscles in moments. The dreams came only a heartbeat later, wrenching into reality. A demented version of Red Light, Green Light he played for several hours, till he woke with his left hand squeezing the hell out of a throw pillow, actual tears on his cheeks, and Sherlock's name on his lips...

He paused only long enough to get shoes and the alcohol. He thundered down the stairs so loudly that Mrs. Hudson poked her curler-bound head out of her door to see what was wrong. Couldn't, he said. Too much. Pride be damned. He wasn't going to stay. Couldn't.

Harry was surprised when he showed up on her doorstep at 4 a.m., but one look was enough.. She stepped aside and volunteered to get the cups. Said they could drink till it felt better.

John knew she was lying. Still. The world seemed determined to go on spinning, and he might as well join.

Just keep moving, soldier.

Sir, yes, sir.


End file.
